


worth the struggle (however quiet)

by YouLookGoodInLeather



Category: Death Stranding (Video Games)
Genre: Asexual Character, Asexual Relationship, Based on the Craftsman's emails, Crushes, Developing Friendships, Except it's not mundane at all because this is death stranding, M/M, Minor Character(s), Mundane Slice of Life stuff, Original Character(s), Platonic Relationships, Slice of Life, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:00:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25885480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YouLookGoodInLeather/pseuds/YouLookGoodInLeather
Summary: Two nameless-to-the-world porters, and the misfitting friendship that forms in the face of frequent near-death experiences that earn little recognition.Accompanied by a raging crush on a snarky, irritatingly brilliant prepper, and a vague disquiet that cannot be articulated, but that nonetheless makes itself felt about the edges.
Relationships: Original Male Character(s)/Original Male Character(s), The Craftsman (Death Stranding)/Original Male Character(s)
Kudos: 5





	1. Porters Getting It Done.

**Author's Note:**

> I have switched the order of events detailed in the craftsman's emails, because I can, and because my screenshots were in the wrong order.

“I’ve got a favour to ask you.”

Herman was a damn fool for thinking he might get one night of peace alone with his book. By now, he ought to know better.

He looks up from the paperback—an old-fashioned affectation that he enjoys, savouring the weight and smell of real printed paper—at his visitor, who, for the record, did not even bother knocking. 

Tobias, Herman’s partner-in-portering, has his head stuck round the door. He’s a short man of Middle Eastern descent, stocky in a way that makes him well-suited to stubbornly grappling up mountainsides, endowed with a long face and dopey eyes that always put Herman in mind of a deer caught by surprise. This innocent, blindsided look Herman knows to be bullshit. Tobias knows exactly how stupid the shit he pulls is. He just does it anyway. 

These words of greeting are ones that Herman has heard a dozen times before. He sighs, tucks his bookmark in to keep the page, and snaps the book shut with a snippy thud. He enjoys how Tobias winces at the sound.

“What?” Herman demands, voice harsh. Tobias grins in this meek, quietly sly way that Herman despises. He despises this grin because it means two things: one, that Tobias is fully-aware that what he is about to ask is both insane and unjustified; two, that Herman isn’t going to say no. He will _want_ to. He’s just too much of an idiot to have learned _how_ yet. 

“I want you to come on a retrieval run with me.” 

“But we don’t have any orders?” Herman points out, less confused than he is suspicious. ‘A retrieval run’ is too ambiguous for him to trust the friendly innocence Tobias is layering into his voice. Herman double checks his cufflinks anyway; no new orders. Three unread emails, but none of them flagged as requests or urgent.

“No,” Tobias agrees with a slow nod. He slinks in, out of lurking in the doorway. The door slides shut with a hiss behind him. Like Herman, he’s in civvies, supposed to be enjoying their three day leave from jobs. Unlike Herman, his clothes don’t fit him well, his squat build ill-catered to by standardised sizing. “It’s not an official order. But someone… heavily implied that they’d like us to go and get something for them.” 

“You want to tell me who, instead of being all damn mysterious about it?” Herman asks. If this is an indirect request from Die-Hardman, or any of the big names out there, then he’s ready to jump at the chance to ingratiate himself and get out of such menial trivia as they get given presently. He’s not optimistic though; he knows Tobias, and knows full well that the man hasn’t an ambitious bone in his body. Besides, he wouldn’t be playing so coy about it if he thought Herman would _enjoy_ agreeing to this ‘favour’. 

“One of the preppers,” Tobias says, careful to keep his voice light, casual. “You met him; or his chiralgram, anyway. The Craftsman?” 

Herman’s answering blank stare is enough for Tobias to prompt, “The grumpy one.”

Herman makes a noise of abject disgust. “The one who won’t shut up about his not-even-dead dead girlfriend?” 

“No, that’s the Junk Dealer.” For fuck’s sake. Sam Porter Bridges has been signing up so many new preppers and facilities onto the network lately that Herman can’t keep up. Not that he makes much effort to; the insipid, trivial nature of all these preppers’ requests irritates him. If he has to deliver one more _vintage wine_. 

“You know the guy. Tinkers with stuff. Went on that long speech about the hematic grenades he’s developing?”

Distantly, it rings a bell. “Right. The one developing weapons.” Herman might not remember his face, but he remembers how excited his superiors were about getting this guy on board. This guy is an asset. 

And suddenly, Tobias has his interest. 

“Okay, I see the advantage in getting this guy to like us.” He’s a fool, letting himself get worked up like this, because soon he’s remembering Tobias’ loitering in the doorway, his quiet smiles. Herman stills his own planning (imagining what being known for securing this guy’s enthusiasm will do for their reputation; fantasising about moving up to bigger and better things, hailed as the ones who delivered back new weapons, weapons that change everything). He narrows his eyes at Tobias, who is shifting his weight from foot to foot. 

“What does he want us to do?”

“Well…” Tobias does this thing that he does, where he fiddles with his collar, thumbing his neck. Herman knows that tick. “I went back to see him after we took those materials over, see if he needed anything else, you know.” Herman knows this tone too: overly airy, concealing flustered interest. 

“Tobias, _again_?” 

Tobias is ready for the accusation, well aware of what is meant. His ears flush a dark red; Herman’s never met anyone who blushes as obviously as his partner.

“What?” he protests hotly, straightening. “Am I not allowed to take an interest in the newest members of the UCA?” 

“First the married doctor, then the _very_ straight administration clerk, now a _prepper_?” Herman asks with exasperated despair. “If you’re going to be so… dedicated in your crushes, can you at least pursue someone more available? The last two were— embarrassing.” 

“Are you going to help me, or not?” Tobias asks, instead of engaging with such slander. 

“What does he want us to do?” Herman repeats. Here, Tobias falters. Herman can feel his stomach dropping. 

“Well, you know those ruins north-east of his shelter—”

*

So that’s how, despite knowing better, Herman finds himself out in the middle of BT territory, getting fucking drenched and probably killed. He finds small comfort in telling himself that, at least this time, he didn’t say yes just because Tobias is a manipulative bastard. Winning the Craftsman’s loyalty could do a lot for them, personally and as a collective. He’s doing it for his _career_.

Herman clings onto this selfishness with terrified desperation as he reaches into the rubble and grapples for the cargo his scanner is pinging as two metres away. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Tobias is whisper-chanting under his breath, his back up against Herman’s , watching both their backs for BTs. Despite being heroic in concept when it comes to winning over his crushes, Tobias is an out-and-out coward in the field. To his credit, he hasn’t bolted. 

Herman grits his teeth and stretches further. A particularly high-pitched whine of _fuck_ from behind makes him hiss, the adrenaline overwhelming. 

“Will you shut it?” He hisses. “They’ll hear you.” 

Tobias shuts up, gripping the BB he’s hooked up to tight. 

He’d wanted Herman to take the BB, for himself to be on cargo duty. They’d argued on it for two solid hours. Herman lacks Tobias’s aversion to hooking up to the things, but he has longer limbs and a steadier grip; Tobias has butter fingers and a tendency to get his arm stuck in openings. 

“These things make me feel gross,” Tobias had mumbled miserably when, standing together on the rising platform back in the city, he’d plugged into his BB unit. Most people, Herman would have told to grow the fuck up. With Tobias, he’s wordlessly sympathetic; he knows the discomfort doesn’t stem from petty superstition and prudishness. 

Now though, Tobias seems to have forgotten that discomfort in favour of staying alive. As Herman, having caught the edges of the cargo, retracts his arm, Tobias stays it with a hand on his shoulder. 

Tobias doesn’t talk, just raises his other hand slowly. He splays his fingers.

Stop. Stay still. 

_They’re close_.

Herman might not have DOOMS, might not have a BB rig, but he would swear he can feel them. A chill in the air. A prickling of his skin. A kind of… humming, or more like static. The feeling that he might be sick. 

It’s accompanied by a disorientating bout of dizziness, one he doesn’t appreciate the force of until it’s passed; the only thing that keeps him grounded is Tobias’ hand gripping his shoulder. 

He watches Tobias’s hand, the splayed one; then he watches Tobias’ mouth, the lips silently counting. Herman doesn’t know what the numbers signify, but the routine is soothing; ten and down, then back to ten again. Down again. Tobias hesitates on a seven. 

He releases Herman, and lowers his left hand. 

“You good?” Tobias asks, voice barely more than a whisper but ugly-loud after that gaping, time-eating quiet. His voice is shaking. Coward might have been the wrong accusation. Bat-shit scared, yes. But still here. 

Herman just nods, not trusting his voice to speak. 

“I think— I think I can see a way out. It’ll be close. We’ll have to go careful.”

“You want to tell me something I don’t know?”

They scowl at one another, till Tobias relents and cracks a small smile that settles into a frown of resolve. He edges back out of the rubble they’d crouched in to reach the cargo. “Stay close.” 

Herman follows. Tobias keeps one hand on his glowing BB unit, tapping the glass on occasion, mumbling to it or himself, Herman can’t be sure. When they’re too close to a BT for anyone’s comfort, Tobias has him follow with one hand on his shoulder. 

A lot of people don’t get why Herman hasn’t asked for a new partner. (Tobias has been passed around through seven other porter-partners before, all of whom requested changes sooner or later. He has something of a reputation, and it’s a poor one.) Herman has his reasons.

It’s hard to explain how shit like this inhabits the heart of those reasons. 

It’s also the fact that, hair-brained a scheme as this whole thing is, they make it back to a sunshine-and-showers drizzle both in one piece. It’s one of those cinematic moments when the heavens clear as Tobias yells in victory and throws his arms around Herman’s shoulders. He has to stand on a prominent rock to negate the height difference, and he teeters precariously as he hugs him; Herman knows better than to think this _cute_. Dealing in adrenaline rushes like they do, you have to get rid of the chemical high somehow. Tobias favours near crushing Herman to death as his technique. Herman… Herman hasn’t figured out what he does yet. 

He doesn’t hug back, but he doesn’t push his partner off either. Just waits till it’s over. Outside of shoulder touches necessary to avoid certain death, he’s not the best with physical contact. 

“I owe you one,” Tobias says upon releasing him. That makes eleven ‘IOU’s, unrequested and unanswered. Sometimes Herman feels that unpaid debt, an irritation under his skin. 

Sometimes not. 

“Yep.” He’s momentarily too exhausted for words. Then laughing, a dry chuckle, equally exhausted, equally momentary. “How do I keep letting you talk me into these things?”

Tobias shrugs, still looking cheerful. “Guess you’re not that bright.” 

“Guess so,” Herman agrees, voice softer. The sunshine feels warm against the exposed nape of his neck. He focuses on that one part of his body. The warmth concentrates there, all in one tight, drifting glow. Tobias’s voice calls from somewhere now behind him. 

“Let’s go.”

*

The journey back to the Craftsman’s shelter is not a long one, but they’re tired and move slow. Which is to say nothing of the treacherous footing, which damn near puts Herman’s ankle out twice. Tobias is steadier, despite being clumsy with his hands, stomping just a fraction before his partner, marking out the safest route. When Herman does stumble, usual composure thrown into vertigo and panic, Tobias is quick to steady him. Admittedly, this is usually done with a quick shoulder-check or a heavy full-body stoppering, but it catches him in freefall. He prefers it to the grabbing of hands. 

(He does not know that this is an aversion he shares with the legendary Sam Porter Bridges. One day he’ll learn of it, and without knowing quite why, resent that this is their most intimate point of connection. But for now, he doesn’t even know how to put words to the twisting in the base of his stomach when someone grabs him, or claps a hand on his shoulder.

Tobias is a kind of exception. On occasion.) 

Herman is more out of it than usual. Something about the sunlight keeps distracting him. Maybe he’s just overtired from how today was supposed to be a holiday. 

“But that was so friggin’ _cool_ ,” Tobias enthuses again. He’s been non-stop chattering about what they just accomplished ever since they lost sight of the ruins. “You just picking it up all sneaky sneaky and quiet. And when you’re there, it’s not half as terrifying. I can’t keep a hold of anything when I’m on my own. My own footsteps make me jump.” 

This is evident from how rarely either of them operate on their own anymore. It used to be they just partnered for jobs that demanded two bodies for carrying (two non-Sam Porter Bridges bodies, anyway). But Tobias asked him along more and more, especially for jobs trespassing through rainier areas, and Herman stopped checking if he was needed and started just saying yes. 

He’s grateful for it. He might never have said so in so many words, but he’s more comfortable for the company. 

Tobias keeps going. “You know, if we get the hang of this, we could do all those shitty jobs no one else wants to do. The BT territory duo. We’d match Sam Porter Bridges for—”

“I don’t want to go back near those things,” Herman says straight out with a shiver. He doesn’t try to hold back in the bite of his tone. Tobias doesn’t push it; Herman’s edge has him falling silent. 

Herman regrets this. The bubbly chitchat was useful for tuning out. In the silence, he’s free to fill the space with the recollection of that unnatural quiet, the quiet of BTs and death and timefall rain. Timefall rain sounds different. It’s less like water hitting the ground, connecting, more like… 

Like being underwater. Feeling your body in the wake of something moving through the water, something you can’t see, can only feel the carried recoil of. A hazy sense of disconnect.

“Do you think he’ll be impressed?” Tobias asks, cutting through the reverie, one which is less thought, more sensation. Herman has to take a second to process the context. When he does, he’s quick to scoff in derision.

“You’re hopeless.”

“I just survived a death trap,” Tobias corrects him, puffing out his chest. “I’m a _hero_.” 

*

Herman doesn’t accompany Tobias to the shelter. He waits about four hundred metres out, squatted down, taking some much needed rest. He knows Tobias well enough by now not to expect him back anytime soon. So, anticipating the rest of the afternoon off, Herman takes out his flask and enjoys the sunshine, sipping at Monster Energy drink and absently watching the BB unit that Tobias unplugged and left by his side. 

The… foetus, if that’s the word for it, has woken up from its post-stress nap. It lies there, suspended in amniotic fluid, staring unwaveringly at Herman. Or, not at Herman, but just at a spot above his shoulder. The focus of its gaze suggests something close by, rather than the middle distance. 

It is unnerving to say the least, and yet Herman doesn’t feel any answering panic. He feels unusually calm. He keeps watching the BB, feeling his own heartbeat in his face, hearing it in his ears. In another moment of hypersensitivity (an after effect of BT encounters, perhaps?), his body feels thunderously hot, his skin sharp and cold. 

The BB’s gaze flickers to meet his own. They blink at one another a few times. 

And then it starts crying. 

  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. The First Courting Gift

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> day/night cycle mechanics haphazardly compiled from the interviews lore + mama's backstory footage.

Tobias’ stomach is all knots as he watches the Craftsman’s chiralgram turn and squat to inspect the package. 

“Did we get the right one?” Tobias asks, stupidly; the damn things are cargo tagged, any idiot can tell if it’s the right package or not. He just wants the other to say something, anything, to settle the roiling in his stomach. 

“... _Y_ _eah_ ,” The Craftsman answers at last, sounding about as surprised as someone with such a heavy vocal fry can do. His chiralgram straightens, frowning. “But I didn’t order this.”

“No,” Tobias agrees, voice too high, stomach plummeting in fear and he’s standing there shuffling, hot under the collar and trying to be less obvious somehow. Suddenly, all of this is starting to seem a bit _desperate_. “But, y’know, last time, when I was here, you mentioned it, that you’d lost it, I mean, that it might be nice to have it again…” 

Courtship is a funny thing in the Death Stranding. Courtship is an even funnier thing when your crush lives out in the bumfuck middle of nowhere, purely for the purpose of avoiding other people. But surely nothing says _I like you_ like diving unasked into BT territory all to grab your desired some lost clothes. Hopefully in a romantic, not-over-the-top kind of way. 

“Right,” the Craftsman says, his lack of comprehension obvious in how he drags the word out, blinking. “Well. That was real generous of you, Son.” 

_Son_. Very glad for Herman’s absence, Tobias grimaces. ‘Son’ isn’t quite the pet name he was gunning for. 

“N-No problem. Just happy to help,” he stammers, feeling his nerves deflating into something more dour. If he could just _say_ , well, I did it because I think _you’re_ pretty neat… 

But Herman is right; he is a coward. 

“Starting to see why so many folks are signing up to the UCA, if they’ve got people like you working for them.” It’s a compliment that would otherwise have had Tobias’ chest squeezing, now ruined by the mental echoing of _Son_. “With that kind of bravery, we might actually stand a chance against these terrorists.” 

Tobias makes some small, noncommittal noise, too depressed to match the enthusiasm. It’s a grey mourning though, devoid of the usual gut-punch. He’s starting to get tired of these, the crush cycles. Much as they appeal to the need to have a focal point, to have _excitement_ amongst the mundane terror, the farce is beginning to feel played out. The desire for connection is genuine, maybe, but he can’t seem to navigate around the rift between the yearning and some unnamable instinct that makes itself felt as a permanent desire to _run_ , settled in the base of his stomach. 

Not that he can feel any of this so clearly; he can only grasp at it clumsily through the leaden exhaustion. 

It’s the Craftsman speaking up that drags him out.

“How’d you manage to make it there and back, though? You don’t seem the DOOMs type.” 

_Forced my best friend to save my ass on yet another pointless, life-threatening favour_ , Tobias thinks miserably. He pulls himself together enough to answer aloud, 

“Paired up with another porter. Him on cargo, me keeping an eye on the BTs.” He brightens to add, “Worked out pretty well, actually. I mean, nearly died like three times but,” he shrugs and tries a grin, despite the dejection, “still in one piece.” 

The Craftsman is quiet, frowning. Tobias allows himself a moment of hope, wondering if the guy has clicked together ‘ _nearly died three times’_ with the fact that Tobias wouldn’t pull this kind of shit for just anyone. 

“There’s something I want you to have,” the Craftsman says at last, his chiralgram turning and vanishing. He sounds too serious for Tobias’ hope to gain much traction, and when The Craftsman reappears he’s still wearing the furrowed brow of a mind elsewhere. He loads something up onto the cargo conveyor and sends it through. Trying to resist the urge to be optimistic, Tobias picks up the package and clicks it open to find—

“I designed it myself. More efficient than the standardised ones. I’d give you more, but there’s a limited supply of Sam’s blood.” 

“Sure,” Tobias says, the sinking feeling in his chest telling him that, despite his best efforts, he let himself get his hopes up. What was he expecting? _Flowers_? A token of thanks? Anything other than a weapon? 

Or maybe this _is_ how someone who exiles himself only to spend his days obsessing over weapon design says thank you. Tobias tries to find it sweet. Given how it could save his life, maybe it’s not such a hollow present. He picks it up out of its foam cushioning, turning the grenade over, eyeing the glint of gold running across it. Chirallium. This is a one of a kind piece of equipment. 

So Tobias allows himself a small smile, and gives his thanks with genuine gentleness. 

“If you find yourself in that sort of situation again, maybe give it a shot. Sam’s had some results, but I’d be interested to see how it works out for the little guy.” So Tobias gets to be ‘son’ and ‘the little guy’. Goodie. 

He nods and reassures the Craftsman that, if he ever does come close to another BT, he absolutely will go _towards_ it with the intention of engaging it in combat, and that he certainly will not bolt (or creep slowly and quietly) in the other direction. Or there about. 

The Craftsman nods. “I’d appreciate hearing how it goes, if you come by again.” 

Though there’s nothing shy about the way he says it, Tobias still enjoys the personal invite to return. Sure, it’s for weapons testing, but it’s an excuse to maybe actually talk. Or get talked at, anyway; Last time, he’d been subjected to a thirty-minute long explanation of how these things worked, how they could change everything for humanity. Tobias had walked away a little bit dazzled and entirely enamoured. 

“I’d love to,” Tobias says, putting a hint of flirtation into it and the accompanying smile, just to see if the guy can take a hint. Instead he gets another curt nod in return.

Why are the brilliant ones always so dense?

“Anything else you need?” Tobias asks. 

Herman is going to kill him. They’re supposed to be on holiday. 

The Craftsman is quiet, arms crossed, tapping his elbow with two fingers. Tobias thinks he’s gotten away with keeping them both happy when—

“Actually, there is.”

*

Tobias can _feel_ the exasperated judgement in the air the minute Herman catches sight of him through the rocks. Him and his however-many-feet-high stack of packages strapped to his back. He manages to shrug off the embarrassment and ignore the pressing weight of that unyielding gaze right up until the last two metres, where he stops, catching his breath. He can’t tell which is more oppressive: Herman’s eyes scrutinising him, or the toolboxes strapped to his back. Heck, these things are _heavy_. 

Seated on the ground, Herman squints up at him where he’s backlit by the sun. 

There’s a long stretch of silence. 

“Is breaking your back just how this guy expresses his affection, or—?” The question is accompanied by a wry smirk, and Tobias is inwardly glad that his partner can at least get some amusement out of this. After all, he did nearly die (thrice) for it. 

Outwardly though, Tobias scowls.

“Shut up. Help me carry some of them, will you? I’m dying here.” Ninety fucking kilograms. He _needs_ to get himself one of those power skeletons everyone’s been gossiping about lately. 

But getting prioritised for materials ain’t so easy when you aren’t _Sam Porter Bridges_. 

“Nope,” Herman answers with a long, languorous sigh, stretching himself out on the ground like a cat sunning itself. “I’m on holiday.” 

Tobias stares at him accusingly, waiting to see if he’ll break. Humming to himself, Herman commits to the act well, folding his hands behind his head, closing his eyes against the sun. He does not reopen them. So then it’s just Tobias, sweating buckets and staring unobserved at his serene face. It’s uncomfortable; _Watching_ Herman, the isolated act of looking at him like this, always arouses some unwanted stomach-feelings. 

Herman is a great deal more attractive than Tobias. He’s nearly a foot taller, face dashingly handsome, his dark brown skin smooth (Tobias has yet to shake his latest bout of acne and he’s furious for it). Though he has a tendency to look stern and intimidating, when relaxed Herman is quite beautiful, his long limbs and delicate hands lending him an air of elegance, the way he carries himself self-possessed and, if not always comfortable, standoffish in a way that makes him seem confident. To the observer, he has the appearance and disposition of some kind of young god, entitled and aloof. Even in bulky porter gear, he looks good.

Tobias can’t gaze at him in the quiet like this without feeling envious. It’s an ugly kind of feeling. It makes their being partners… difficult, which seems like such a petty reason for aversion. 

So he distracts himself by glancing at the discarded BB unit lying on the ground between them. 

“Can you at least carry that thing back for me?” 

Herman cracks one eye to see what he’s referring to. 

“You really don’t like them, huh?” 

Tobias answers this with quiet. He is not often slow to words, regardless of if he knows the answer to whatever he is being quizzed upon. _Think before you speak_ , a particularly disgruntled past porter-partner once told him in a parting email. Here, Tobias struggles for long enough that even Herman looks set to break the silence. Tobias beats him to it, 

“You know it’s not because of the magic land of the dead connected babyness.” He smirks, though it’s a hollow expression. “Heck, if anything was going to endear me to caretaking a foetus, it’d be magical land of the dead connectedness. That’s some cool spooky shit.” Another pause. “I know it’s stupid. I know carrying it doesn’t _mean_ anything.”

Neither speak as all that not-meaning expands to fill the space, Tobias swallowing around any further attempts to expel it. In the distance, they can hear the sound of rainfall.

“I’ll take it back,” Herman agrees. “But we’d better not be needing it again.” 

“I’m not carrying all of _this_ through a pack of them,” Tobias mutters, shifting to try and relieve the pain in his everything at the load he’s carrying. “The sky so much as _spits_ at us, I’m taking that as a sign that I should just give up on the whole thing and never speak to him again. Asshole barely even said thank you.” 

“It went well then?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

*

Unfortunately for Herman, who could do without Tobias’ danger-inducing crushes, it is clear skies and the gentle glow of a setting sun that lights their way back to the city. They have to move at a snail’s pace, Tobias struggling to keep his footing with so much weight loaded on his back; Herman lasts about fifteen minutes before he relents and takes half the burden. 

“I will find a way to get you so many books,” Tobias promises. 

Another IOU then. 

Herman refuses to speak to him for a long way after that, marching off ahead at a pace that Tobias and his shorter legs struggle to keep up with. He endures the punishment in silence for two, maybe three minutes, breathy at constantly having to break into a jog. Then he resorts to the usual solution of just talking _at_ Herman, chattering away a constant stream of nothingness until he gets a response to nothing in particular; a short, discontented grunt. Herman slows a little, closing the distance between them from ten metres down to two. 

Tobias’ shoulders relax. Herman’s walk less evokes the verb _storming_. 

He remains leading, the irritation lessened but not gone, fuelling his pace. Every so often he reminds himself to slow down, dawdling, waiting for Tobias to catch up before setting off again, inevitably picking up speed when he forgets to taper it. But Tobias’ speech is still freer, easier. He doesn’t mind trailing after Herman, doesn’t mind holding conversation with his back, still only getting three or four words at most out of him. They’ve done this long enough for them both to know the bitterness isn’t anything permanent. 

Soon, Herman is in a good enough mood to snort when Tobias relays how things went with the Craftsman. 

“Son?” Herman repeats. “Kinky.”

“ _Don’t_ ,” Tobias warns, cheeks warm. “And just when I thought I couldn’t be any more obvious.”

“You do like the dense ones.” 

The perimeter of the city draws into sight, right as the light levels are starting to dip too low to see without the flashlight of their odradeks. It’s a rare thing now, night time, rarer still to experience it with a clear sky. 

Far enough from the city lights to see the stars, both porters stop to look up. The BB trills, its pod lighting up as it presses its hands to the glass and looks with them. The open night sky, empty of clouds, empty of light save for pinpricks trillions of miles away— it feels like the one remaining unoccupied space left to them. Even the open fields and unpopulated mountainsides feel inhabited, breathed through with the ever-present possibility of BTs. That night sky though, that remains untouched. Rare, but there, a glimpse of a space less saturated. 

“Herman,” Tobias says, now looking at his partner. “I realised I didn’t say thank you either.”

Herman gazes upwards a little while longer, then looks back at him. “You didn’t.”

“ _Thank you_ ,” Tobias enunciates, looking hard at him. “For all of it.” 

Herman holds his gaze. He’s notorious for being unreadable, face too often pressed into an immovable half-frown that is neither unkind nor stupid. It is a face with eyes that seem to be always probing. It took Tobias a long while to get used to it.

That’s a lie. Under such scrutiny, he still feels apprehensive. He doesn’t try to avoid or distract from it though. Herman rarely shares whatever it is he’s thinking about, so Tobias doesn’t expect some grand pronouncement. He just hopes that, if he endures enough of these studies, Herman might ease up around him a bit more. Never has Tobias met anyone so profoundly uncomfortable. 

The stare is broken with a sigh. “It’s fine.” Herman adjusts his load, rolling out his shoulders. “But I want you to make good on those books.” 

“Even if I have to blow every reqs officer in the city, I will get you those books.”

The disquieting gazes are entirely worth it for how Herman sniggers, low, grated through with lethargy. Tobias feels a sense of care that he doesn’t know what to do with, especially knowing he’ll forget it the next time he comes up with some near-fatal favour to ask. 

Herman looks back to Lake Knot City, the faint blue glow of the perimeter fencing posts. 

“Thanks for watching my back over there,” he says with a sigh, taking a hold of his backpack straps and bracing himself for the rest of the journey. 

“Thanks for having long arms.” Tobias knows not to take Herman too seriously. It’s bad for someone who scowls so much. And he’s rewarded for that knowing with a real smile, one about as rare as the clear night sky overhead. 

“My greatest talent.” 

  
  
  



End file.
